With the death of Keeper Q’yer, the battle in the great hall began. Midori and Catrin were slow in recovering from the pain inside. Lord Fantyu, although close-by, was not quick enough to stop their assailants from reaching them. A mailed hand cuffed Catrin and knocked her backward. The large figure laughed as he watched her fall, tumbling down the tiered rows. He grabbed Midori by her long hair and pulled her close to him, close enough so she could feel his breath against her face, and the foulness of it revolted her.
The council members were in panic. They ran blindly toward the great doors, following each other to their deaths. Lord Serant could only watch as they were easily cut down, their blood running bright across the floor. His goal, as well as Captain Brodst’s, was to get to safety with Calyin and anyone else who could follow. Although he did feel sorrow in his heart for the deaths of the others, he did not have time to wait for old men, and their end only made it easier for him to leave the chamber without regrets.
Lord Fantyu drew his sword and swiftly ran Midori’s assailant through. The expression on the warrior’s face went from shocked dismay to horror as he watched the tip of the blade thrust out of his abdomen. Lord Fantyu quickly withdrew his blade and delivered a slapping blow to an attacker that moved toward him from the side. His elbow was quick to follow, as was his sword. He grabbed Midori by the hand and pulled her away. “But Catrin?” she yelled.
Lord Fantyu ignored her words and retreated to the rear of the chamber, where Lord Serant and Captain Brodst had set up a defensive position. They had turned the long, oaken conference table onto its side and strewn the way with chairs piled high, standing at the ready, waiting for any aggressors to come their way.
Geoffrey watched and waited, conferring calmly with the two at his side. He pictured in his mind how the battle would unfold. He was unconcerned for his safety due to the presence of the four men who stood before him; he was absolutely confident of their ability to defend him.
Father Joshua withdrew his hand from Talem’s face a third time and looked dead into the dark priest’s eyes. “You will pay for your treachery!” he bellowed. Talem was by no account able to argue with him; his world spun before him, in dazzling shadings of black and white.
Lord Serant angrily glared around the hall. “Where was Pyetr? Damn it!” he cursed under his breath. His search stopped when he came upon the four kings, sitting relaxed in the same place they had occupied earlier. A very large contingent of guards was gathered around them, which did not move to join the fray. They stood at the ready with weapons waiting.
Lord Serant’s eyes fell to the door that lay behind them; the ante-chamber was beyond. He wondered if they realized the door was there. He nudged Captain Brodst and carefully brought his attention to the door. Both realized what it meant, but they had no way to reach it.
The primary problem with that exit was the considerable number of foes they would have to engage to get to it; nevertheless, there were fewer men in the way of their escape in that direction, no matter how the two thought about it. The more Lord Serant pondered the possibility, the less he favored it. It was not worth the risk; there had to be another way.
The sentries, though outnumbered and overwhelmed, were holding their own. Of twenty, only ten remained. They watched with horror as the enemy continued to come at them in waves. Weapons danced in their hands with the sweat of their lives pouring into their every move. If they failed a block or parry, they were dead, and this they knew and understood very well.
“Damn it, Pyetr!” cursed Lord Serant aloud again. His heart raced with anxiety; his mind spun with possibilities, working through various plans of escape while his sword arm agitatedly held his weapon at his side. Anger and frustration suffused his face. He was forced to stand and watch and wait.
Similar thoughts were crossing Captain Brodst’s mind. He too looked for any possible way to escape, and if luck befell him he would find a way past the kings’ soldiers. For the first time, his attention moved to the keepers who still stood confused. The priests of the Father, who were not as quick to react as Father Joshua had been, stood directly adjacent to them.
Although he realized that they would be the next logical target for the foe, he held no hopes of assisting them. He must keep his thoughts clear. He did not need the extra baggage. The priests could hold their own for a time; the Father would not easily relinquish their positions on this plane. The keepers, however, were as useless as the High Council had been. He saw a similar fate for them.
Strength of will returned to Midori as she shook off the last of the effects of the dark priests’ powers over her. She could not believe she had fallen for their mind tricks. She could not believe what she saw. She clutched her ceremonial dagger firmly in her hand. Her eyes fixed clearly, precisely on the front of the chamber.
Thoughts now raged within her. She sought out Father Joshua, but he was nowhere to be found. She knew none of the other priests of the Father by name. She did not, however, let that distract her from her search among them for one that would suit her needs.
Her eyes went wide with excitement and anticipation. “Catrin,” she reached out in thought. The Mother had truly smiled upon them. She saw life within Catrin; Catrin was alive.
A gasp of dismay came from Lord Serant’s lips as he watched the last of the sentries fall. It became obvious to him who the leader of the attackers was as he watched the last few rounds of melee. He fixed a cold, icy stare upon the leader and waited for the moment when the attack would come. “Pyetr!” he screamed out in his mind, “Damn it, man, hurry!”
He sighed in relief as his eyes fell upon a small contingent that took a position between him and the intruders. Lord Fantyu had taken up a position there with his men. Nine stood defiantly waiting. Lord Fantyu offered him a reassuring nod; the attackers would have to come through him first.
An idea came to Lord Serant; he turned and glared at Chancellor Volnej. His hand swiftly, subconsciously brought his blade to the chancellor’s throat. “This is all your doing! Is it not? You traitorous dog!” he yelled as he spit in the chancellor’s face. “You are not worth killing! I should feed you to a pack of wolves and let the vultures pick at your carcass after they are finished!”
Chancellor Volnej swallowed harshly, his face registering confusion. He didn’t understand what Lord Serant was saying—a traitor. He was no traitor. “What are you saying? Are you mad?”
Chancellor Van’te was also confused. “Lord Serant, you must be mistaken. I have known the chancellor for a number of years; there is no way he is a traitor. Our enemy lies out there, not here!”
Lord Serant was abashed and confused. “Chancellor Volnej is a traitor; I can prove it!” he stated, his voice quavering uncertainly.
“Lord Serant, please! I beg you, do not act foolishly. Think about what you are saying,” begged Chancellor Van’te.
Chancellor Volnej said nothing further in his defense. The tip of Serant’s blade at his throat that did not move was more than enough to hold his tongue. He did not want to infuriate the obviously stressed lord with even the slightest provocation.